


One Magical Night

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It had been a very, very long time since Anders found himself in a seedy brothel. No, a whorehouse. Might as well call a spade a spade, after all.</i>
</p>
<p>Anders spends the night with a whore, changing both their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea because I see a lot of AUs in which Carver or Bethany have to whore themselves out because Hawke is dead. I love those AUs, but it got me thinking, what if Hawke was the whore instead? Thus, this ficlet was born.

Out of all the bad ideas that Anders ever had, this might just have topped the list. Not that he didn't think he deserved a break, the way Justice drove him on night after night. But it had been a very, very long time since he found himself in a seedy brothel. No, a whorehouse. Might as well call a spade a spade, after all. Brothels were for Hightown, classy places with rich carpets and good wine. The ale here tasted old and stale, just like the stench that hung in the air. Thick with smoke, badly lit, the ambience wasn't one that made you want to stay and have a conversation. Probably on purpose, he reasoned, as the main room was nearly empty of both patrons and workers.

A tired old woman sat in the corner, her red dress faded, a headband of rotting silk holding one sad-looking feather. Perhaps in her prime she was a beauty, but she looked just like everyone else in Lowtown. Dirty and jaded and poor. He wondered how much the whores got paid here, and if they were offered any protection. Perhaps it was safer than on the streets? Women who were trying to making a living by selling their bodies, raped and left for dead in back alleys. The City Guard did nothing about it. Maker, sometimes the _Guard_ was the one who perpetrated it in the first place.

_Calm down_ he thought, taking a breath, looking down at the hand that clutched the mug. No cracks of blue. The same faint scars across his knuckles. Too much anger that close to the surface and he risked Justice breaking loose. He couldn't afford that here. Here. What was he even doing here? He turned the oddly shaped coin with his free hand, letting it clink to the bar, fingers sliding down it before he lifted, turned, let it clink again. A patient of his left it, insisting he take it and use it. Said he'd enjoy himself. A hot meal and a good lay.

The meal was… not half bad. Aside from the ale. Carrot and potatoes in some kind of stew. He hesitated to think about what type of meat it was. Rat? No. He shouldn't think about it. But his stomach was full from both it and the half loaf of hard bread the bartender gave him. He came over now to clear the dishes away, gesturing at the mug.

"No, thank you," Anders said.

"You gon' use that?" the bartender grunted, pointing at the coin.

"I haven't seen anyone who caught my eye yet," Anders said meekly.

"Whores gotta sleep. Pass it to one before dawn, yeah? Or get out and don't bother comin' back."

"Right."

The bartender left him in peace. He pushed away the mug of ale with a sigh, sitting back a little, glancing around the room once again. Aside from the old woman, there was an elven girl, though from the looks of her, she was barely out of childhood. Much too young for Anders' tastes and obviously not there by choice. If he'd had any coin on him at all, he would have given it to her on the spot. The last available was a man, middle-aged, bald and toothless. Which, he supposed with a shudder, might have had its advantages.

It was no use. He would just leave, return to his clinic. Work on his manifesto and-

The sound of laughter echoed from the stairs, odd and out of place. A girl giggled and thanked someone for 'a lovely time'. Anders watched her fairly skip across the room, and turned to see who'd brought her such joy. Through the haze of smoke he saw…

Well.

_Well._

Tall, black hair, with a gorgeous, thick beard. His tunic left open to reveal a dark thatch of hair on a well-muscled chest. He leaned against the doorframe, forearm pressed against the creaking wood. His linen trousers hung precariously low, the hem of his shirt hiked up from his stance, a sliver of tanned flesh just visible. Anders surreptitiously wiped his chin, just in case he was drooling. He watched the man cross the room to the bartender, signaling for a drink. The way he moved was deliberate, slow and sinful, and Anders' eyes slid down his toned form, suddenly consumed with want.

_I should leave now. The meal was good. I don't need to get laid._

But how long had it been?

Certainly before Kirkwall. Before Justice. Almost very nearly before joining the Wardens. Thank the Maker they weren't all prudes there, though.

_One night. Just one night for yourself._

Even saying it that way it felt selfish. But the coin would go to waste otherwise, wouldn't it? And the girl certainly seemed sated. Happy. What he wouldn't give to feel that relaxed for once. He slid from his chair.

"Excuse me."

The man – whore – looked over, an immediate half-smile touching his lips. He turned to face Anders, hand on a cocked hip, eyes raking down his form. Anders repressed a shiver, already feeling the stirrings of arousal.

"What can I do for you tonight, handsome?"

Anders bristled. The canned response was off-putting. But the man immediately changed tact.

"Alright, I get it. It's not your first rodeo. But it still costs to ride."

Anders' breath hitched as the man stepped into his personal space. He smelled of tobacco and scotch. An odd combination for a whore in a Lowtown establishment. It didn't smell cheap either, not sour and stale, but rich and smooth, much like the man's voice, which was currently whispering in his ear.

"You're much better-looking than the clients I usually get. How about you give me a treat tonight?"

Deft fingers somehow made their way into his coat, pressing against the thin cotton of his threadbare shirt. He felt their heat through the fabric, and the last of his resistance fell away. He held up the coin.

"Yes."

The man eyed it, closed his hand around Anders' to pull the coin from his grasp. Examined it closely, then tapped on the bar before tossing it to the bartender.

"This is my last for the night," he said to him, curling his fingertips around Anders', pulling him away from the bar, walking backward toward the stairs. "So," he said to Anders, as they reached the stairs, "what do I call you, if anything?"

Anders watched him ascend, biting his lower lip distractedly before following, eyes on his taut backside. "Anders," he said without thinking. Then again it wasn't as if he had much notoriety in the city. Most that knew him referred to him as, 'the Healer,' which he was fine with. It made him feel like a hero from an old and glorious tale. Not that he was in the business for the glory, of course. He would've chosen a profession with more chances for sweeping victories and less of vomit and feverish old ladies.

The man laughed. "All right. Have it your way."

"And what do I call you?" Anders asked, following him down the hall to a room. "And don't say anything trite like, 'Whatever you want'."

He looked around the room. Largely nondescript, it contained a bed, a large wooden wardrobe, a trunk next to it, and a partitioned-off bathing area. Evidence of a recent bath lay about the edge of the stone tub.

"Hawke."

"Is that your real name or-"

"Is 'Anders' yours?"

Anders frowned. "Real enough. I haven't been called anything different since I was twelve."

Hawke stripped the bed, tossing the soiled linens into the hall before closing and locking the door. He pulled new sheets, pillows, and a blanket from the wardrobe and quickly made the bed.

"Fair enough, Anders."

Anders shivered a little. Hawke had a very deep voice, very pleasant to listen to.

"What's your pleasure?"

"I… it's been a long time," Anders admitted.

"Well," said Hawke, crossing the room in the same predatory manner he'd done downstairs, "we'll just have to go slowly. Won't we?"

He gazed at Anders through half-lidded eyes, smirking. Anders felt a feeble pull at his mind, a nagging feeling that he should be elsewhere, doing anything but this. In one vicious, indulgent push, he shoved the feeling aside.

"Yes," he said, returning the smirk. "We will."


	2. Chapter 2

Anders thought whores hated to kiss. Maybe it was just a rumor, or maybe it was just particular to each one. When Hawke said, 'slowly' he meant it. Strong hands took him by the waist as they kissed, carefully, almost cautiously, as if this were the end of a first date and Hawke was afraid of scaring him off. It was sweet and soft, his beard slightly scratchy against his chin. He didn't mind. He parted his lips invitingly, rewarded with a skillful tongue sliding against his own. Without realizing it, he'd reached up to grip Hawke's arms, feeling his strong, hard biceps. Not that he was a slouch himself, but he lacked the muscle and the build. Being locked in a tower most of his life, the only exercise he got came from running away from the templars.

"The bed?" Anders asked, slightly out of breath when the kiss ended.

Hawke pushed him back against the door, pinning him. He smirked again, nuzzling his neck, then kissed it, then bit.

Anders groaned, arching up into the touch, or tried to. Hawke kept him pinned against the door and he whimpered.

"Not yet," Hawke whispered, then dragged his tongue around the shell of Anders' ear.

Anders squirmed pleasantly as tongue and lips and teeth teased his sensitive skin, likely leaving bruises in a trail down his neck. He didn't care. Hawke undid the buckles to his coat, reached up and unclasped the gold chain that held the rest of it together, and pushed the whole of it off his shoulders. It slithered to the floor, leaving him in his thin shirt, which was embarrassingly stained and threadbare. He bit back the need to apologize for it. Hawke didn't comment. He kissed his throat, then up to where his neck met his shoulder, one finger snagging the neckline of his shirt to pull it away. He bit hard, a little too hard, and sucked. Anders hissed, pulling away.

"I'm not a bloody piece of meat," he scowled.

Hawke chuckled softly. "Sorry. You struck me as the sort of person who might enjoy a bit of pain. No more biting then."

"…Just go a little easier," Anders relented. "I don't mind a _bit_ of pain."

"Neither do I," Hawke growled, pulling him close suddenly, arms around his waist.

Anders yelped as Hawke slapped his backside, forcing his hips forward. He gasped, his own half-hard cock pressed against what felt like an extremely impressive erection.

"You want to ride it?" Hawke whispered.

"Oh Maker," Anders breathed.

"Get off on that, do you?"

His voice. His fucking voice. Anders thought he would come just from hearing it. He tried to answer and merely whimpered. Another slap, another cry, and he ground his hips against Hawke's. So much for slow. Strong fingers massaged the sore cheek as he tried desperately not to continue rubbing against him like a cat in heat.

"You want me to fuck you? Shove you against the wall and rip your clothes off? Bruise you? Mark you?"

Anders let out a shaking breath. "Sweet Andraste. Hawke…"

"Would you like that? Or would you prefer me to suck you off? See me on my knees in front of you."

He slid down, pressing hot kiss after hot kiss through the thin cloth of his shirt. Anders leaned back against the door, one hand flat against the wood, trying to keep his balance. Hawke was kneeling now, looking up at him. No. No, it wasn't right. He shook his head.

Hawke smirked, stood. "Prefer to be dominated. I can work with that." He gripped Anders' wrists. "Do you use a word?"

Anders licked his lips, nervous. They played this game before. Him and the other apprentices in the tower. Later he looked back at it in confusion and a little bit of shame, but also excitement. He hated the templars, hated everything they stood for. But that had always been his choice. When he allowed the other apprentices to do this to him, it was his decision every time. _Hawke_ was his choice.

"The Circle," Anders said, and regretted it almost instantly.

There was a flicker of… confusion or maybe hesitancy? On Hawke's face before it was gone in an instant. 

_Way to kill the mood,_ Anders thought.

But Hawke responded with a kiss, pressing him hard up against the door, shoving a thigh between his legs. He pinned his arms up above his head and broke the kiss with a grin. "I will have you begging for it. How does that make you feel, hm? Begging the whore?"

Anders shivered. Dirty. He felt dirty. But it was a far cry from his normal life now. Surrounded by the helpless, the needy, the ones who begged _him_. How good it would feel just to let go, to trust Hawke to treat him in such a way that would leave him sated… and happy.

"Yes," he agreed.

Hawke released his arms, grabbing him under the thighs and picked him up easily. Anders gripped his shoulders, wrapping his legs around his waist. In a second they were across the room and he was tossed onto the mattress, which was surprisingly soft. He didn't have time to admire it too closely, Hawke climbing over him, straddling his waist, kissing him again.

"You know what I'm going to do?" Hawke muttered against his ear. "I'm going to make you suck my cock. Say you want it."

"I… I want…"

Suddenly a hand was in his hair, pulling, yanking his head to the side. Another bite on the opposite side of his neck from before, just a shade more gentle than the first time. He cried out, one hand gripping the blanket, the other Hawke's forearm, nails digging into skin.

"Say it," Hawke growled.

"I want to suck your cock." He felt himself blush. Why was he blushing? He never had any fear or embarrassment of speaking out before. He was always the first to mouth off to templars, to the First Enchanter. And he was never short of an opinion.

"How much?" Hawke asked, sitting up, rolling his hips forward as he did.

Anders groaned, thrusting up. "Fuck. I… I want it in my mouth. Now."

Hawke chuckled. "Good." He grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled it off in one swift motion.

Anders immediately reached up, touched the dark curls on his chest, hand sliding down to the trail of hair from his navel, fingers catching the waistband of his trousers. Hawke grabbed his wrist tightly before he could go lower.

"Stay," he ordered, and left the bed.

"Where-" Anders leaned up on his elbows to watch.

Hawke dug through the trunk and pulled out two long lengths of rope, holding them up so Anders could see, giving him to the opportunity to back out. He kept quiet. Hawke grabbed him just under the arm and hauled him across the bed to the headboard, and Anders realized just how easily Hawke could likely break him in half if he wanted to. His own shirt joined Hawke's on the floor, and he blushed again. Not because the thought of being half-naked in front of a total stranger bothered him, but the mere state of his body paled in comparison to Hawke's. He'd always been thin, but now he was scrawny, ribs showing, stomach sunken. More scars than he cared to notice.

Either Hawke was very good at concealing his feelings, or he didn't care. He tied Anders' wrists to the headboard with speed and proficiency, probably having done this a thousand times before. The rope scraped against his skin. It wasn't silky or soft, like the ropes from the Pearl, but they held just as well. He liked it. Hawke moved away again, thumbs catching the top of his own pants and he pulled them down and off in a practiced motion. Naked now, Anders took in all of him. A few scars, though not nearly as many as his own. Taut, flat stomach, and a proud, thick cock which stood erect, waiting.

Anders found his mouth watering.

"Well?" Hawke asked. "What do you want?"

Anders growled. "Your cock. Now."

Hawke laughed and straddled his chest, folding a pillow under his head as Anders leaned up, lips inches away. He opened his mouth eagerly. Hawke took himself in hand, stroking slowly. He carefully pulled back the foreskin, revealing the tip, and Anders strained to reach it.

"You're eager," Hawke muttered. "Slut. How bad do you want it?"

If Anders' hands hadn't been tied to the bed, he would've thrown Hawke back and pinned him down to show him exactly how badly he wanted it. "Give it to me."

"My, my. You are a demanding little cocksucker."

"Not a cocksucker until you give it to me."

"I bet. How many pricks have you sucked in your lifetime? A dozen? Two? Mm." He squeezed himself, a bead of precome at the tip.

Anders eyed it, licking his lips. "Hawke," he growled. "Let me suck it or put it in me."

"Here I thought we were going to go slowly." Hawke slid back, bare ass brushing him through the trousers.

Anders swore, pulling at the ropes. "Tease!"

Hawke got off the bed again, leaned down, and started unbuckling Anders' boots. "Maybe you just need some time to relax. You're getting a little angry."

Anders watched him pull one boot off, then another. The socks were next, a hole in one, the other patched so many times it had less of the original fabric and more colors than a rainbow.

"Let me see. Smallclothes or no… I guess yes."

Anders laughed, arching up, trying to get Hawke to touch him and not just his belt. Trousers slid from his legs to reveal a pair of sad looking smalls.

"I was right," Hawke smirked arrogantly. "What do I win?"

"The prize is underneath them," Anders said, lifting his hips eagerly.

"Not yet. But I think," Hawke said, crawling onto the bed, over top him, "you've been patient enough. Time to show me how good your mouth is."

Anders moaned into the kiss, gasping as Hawke bit his bottom lip when he pulled away. Straddling his chest again, he offered himself, and Anders carefully licked away the salty precome. His own cock twitched in anticipation. Though it had been years, muscle memory kicked in. His body knew what was coming. Hawke guided his cock with one hand, the other gripping the headboard to keep his balance. Anders opened his mouth wider, jaw straining. He suckled around the tip, lips carefully tucked over his teeth, tongue flicking the underside.

Hawke let him get used to the position before pushing in further. "Gonna move now, sweetheart," he breathed.

Before Anders could acknowledge the sudden gentleness, Hawke started to thrust. Anders choked back a laugh, bucking his own hips in rhythm, careful not to gag.

"Ngh. Yes," Hawke whispered. "Suck it. Take it. Cockslut."

Anders groaned. The angle was awkward, he wasn't able to provide much suction, but Hawke didn't seem to care. The talk stopped, the only sounds Hawke's grunting and the sloppy, wet noises as he thrust into Anders' mouth. Anders closed his eyes, focusing on the taste, the pleasant ache in his jaw, the rough rope pulling at his wrists. He writhed eagerly, knowing it would be his turn soon, that maybe Hawke would fuck him next. He gagged; Hawke pulled back.

"All right?"

Anders licked his lips, looking up through his eyelashes. "Fuck me," he growled, unable to wait any longer. He paid for the night, he would have the night. Even if Hawke had to track down a stamina potion to finish it.

"Not yet. We have time," Hawke assured him, stroking himself again. "Ooh, you look angry."

Anders glared, pulled at the rope. He knew how to make it stop, how to have to Hawke release him. He could order him to fuck him, to finish it now. But he didn't.

"I think I'll mark you," Hawke breathed. "Hold still."

"Mark-"

Hawke's free hand was in his hair again, pulling, yanking his head back. Anders knew at once what was about to happen and he closed his eyes. Warm, sticky spurts of come fell on his face and he opened his mouth, moaning, legs spreading, wanting it. He licked his lips, trying taste, when Hawke brought two fingers down his cheek, smearing his seed, and pressed them into his mouth. Anders sucked eagerly, tongue lapping, licking, flicking between them. He whined when Hawke pulled away, getting up again.

"Sorry. Gets nasty when it dries."

Anders watched him retreat to the corner of the room, breathing heavily. He rubbed against the blankets, trying to move his smalls down his hips, but had no luck. The sound of water drew his attention back to the corner of the room and Hawke returned with a warm washcloth, carefully wiping off his face. Finished, he kissed him again before trailing down his chest.

"Why do you do that?" Anders asked.

"Hm?" Hawke kissed one of his nipples, flicked his tongue over it, then bit experimentally.

Anders jerked involuntarily. "Being gentle."

"Keeps you on your toes," Hawke said with a wink before moving to the other nipple to give it the same treatment.

Anders rocked forward a bit, demanding more. Hawke didn't disappoint, placing a kiss to his stomach, then his side, licking a trail to his hip. He moved agonizingly slowly though. Anders bent one knee, pushing up from the mattress, his smallclothes infuriatingly restricting.

"What do you want?" Hawke asked.

"Take them off," Anders demanded.

"No."

Anders let out a frustrated cry as Hawke kissed his hip again. His strong hands gripped the backs of Anders' thighs, parting his legs. He kissed one knee, then the other, nipping the skin as he moved upward. Anders panted softly, anticipating the warmth of a mouth in just a few short seconds. Hawke leaned up, hot breath achingly close to his cloth-covered cock, and bypassed it, kissing his stomach. Anders cried out again, pulling at the ropes.

"It's not fair!"

Such an absurd statement. There was no such thing as fairness. It wasn't fair that mages were locked in Circles while others walked free. It wasn't fair that the poor of Kirkwall starved, or that Fereldans were driven from their home by the Blight.

"Did you expect fairness?" Hawke asked, eyebrow arched. "Did you expect a slut like you to be treated with kindness? That I would give into your every little demand?"

Anders shivered. He knew it was just roleplay but the words were similar to what he'd heard before. What he'd been called before. Two words would stop it.

"N-no," he whispered.

"Did you think that you could come in here and order me around? Think I should teach you a lesson."

Anders opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut up when Hawke reached up, untying him from the headboard. He was dragged across Hawke's broad lap, and immediately thrust against his thigh.

"You get one freebie," Hawke growled. "That was it. You move again without my permission and you'll get worse than I've already given. You understand?"

"Yes," Anders whispered.

"'Yes, sir'," Hawke informed him.

"Yes, sir," was the immediate, whispered reply.

Heart racing, Anders waited. He counted ten seconds, then twenty. Suddenly Hawke's hand came down across his ass with a loud _smack!_ He cried out, the pleasant sting driving all errant thoughts from his mind.

"More, please," Anders begged.

"Since you asked nicely."

Another slap to the other cheek and Anders bit his lip. One hand gripped the bed while the other held onto Hawke's leg. He fought hard not to thrust down against his thigh. If that morning he'd been told he would find himself in a seedy Lowtown brothel, strung across a whore's lap, begging to be spanked… he might not have gotten out of bed that day. Another smack and thoughts of what ifs and should haves left his brain. He _needed_ this, _wanted_ this.

"More!"

With each sharp slap, Anders let his mind clear of thoughts of his clinic, his duties toward the mages, the Circle, the Chantry. There was Hawke. Hawke would take care of him.

"Please, I want…"

"Tell me."

"Fuck me. Fuck me now, Hawke."

He hissed as his smalls were dragged over his stinging backside and down his thighs. He lifted his hips, moaning when his erection pressed against the bare flesh of Hawke's leg. Hawke's warm hand massaged his ass, one side, then the other, a thick finger sliding down his cleft. He shivered, almost tempted to tell Hawke to take him dry. He arched up as the pad of Hawke's finger found his hole, and moaned.

"You're ready to go, aren't you?" Hawke asked, clearly amused. "How do you want it?"

"Doesn't matter," Anders gasped.

"Get on your knees."

Anders scrambled off his lap onto the mattress, kneeling, shoulders dropped. The bed dipped and Hawke was behind him, hands on his thighs, edging his smallclothes down further. He lifted one knee, then the other, and was finally fully naked. He winced as Hawke grabbed his sore bottom, gasping as he was parted, and groaned as Hawke tongued his hole.

"Holy bride of the Maker," he muttered, grabbing a pillow, gripping, biting.

"Not sure Andraste ever did this for him," Hawke chuckled. "Wasn't sex a sin or something? Boring religion if you ask me. Don't hold back. I want to hear you."

Anders groaned again, trying not to shove back against Hawke's face as the man's tongue wriggled, pressing just inside him. Suddenly it was gone, and he mourned the loss until he felt Hawke's mouth around his sac, sucking softly. A babble of incoherent words spilled from his lips, some of it in his native tongue. He rocked back, whining.

"Fuck me," he begged. "Just fuck me now. I can't take any more."

A shuffling sound, Hawke moving away briefly, then back, and Anders felt a cool dribble of oil down his cleft. A sting of pain as Hawke pushed his finger inside, and a familiar rush of warmth he equated with a healing spell followed, taking the sting away almost at once. But he hadn't cast – had he? In his slightly frenzied state, he thought he could have. Another finger, the same rush of warmth, and he knew it wasn't him. Hawke… Hawke was…

"You like it, slut?"

Whispering harsh words into his ear, causing him to shiver. Biting his shoulder, thrusting his fingers into him, making him whimper, making him shudder, want. _Need._

"Yes!" Anders moaned. "Yes, I like it."

"Say you're a slut. A dirty slut who wants to be fucked by a whore."

"I… I'm a dirty slut. I want it… Want your cock in me. Do it." Anders moved faster now, impaling himself on Hawke's fingers, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more, wanted to be touched. He felt Hawke's erection pressed against his hip. 

Hawke reached up, pulling back a curtain above the headboard to reveal a mirror. His fingers sunk into Anders' hair, twisting painfully, lifting his head. "Watch yourself. I want you to watch yourself as I fuck you."

Anders groaned as the tip of Hawke's oiled erection pressed into him. He watched, not himself, but Hawke's expression. His eyes were open but downcast, looking at the spot where they joined. One hand gripped his hip, the other his hair, forcing him to watch. Anders hissed as Hawke slid in, a calloused hand slipping from his hip to his stomach, pulling him up even more. He saw himself, pale against slightly tanned skin, light where Hawke was dark, his own cock neglected and begging for attention.

"Maker, you're fucking gorgeous," Hawke breathed. His hand left Anders' hair to drop down, fingers wrapping around his cock.

"I… Maker… Hawke. Hngh…"

"Hold the headboard. Don't want to lose you."

Anders leaned forward to grab it, squeezing around Hawke instinctively, feeling full but needing more. "Fuck me," he pleaded.

"Yes," Hawke promised, and started to thrust.

They fell silent once more as Hawke fucked him, just the sound of the bed creaking, their groans, Anders gasping, whimpering. He glanced up, eyes meeting Hawke's in the mirror. Too intense, too intimate. He looked down again, watching the rhythm of Hawke's hand on his cock, matching against his own thrusts, sweat-slicked skin sliding against skin as they coupled. Anders felt the same warm, tingling burst of magic, so subtle he almost missed it. It went straight to the tip of his cock, down to his balls, settling deliciously at the base of his spine. In his right mind, he would've found it brilliant – healing magic as a sexual aid. Too lost in his own pleasure, he dared not try to return the favor.

"More," he breathed. "More… more… just… there. Almost…"

With a keening cry, he came, shoving back against Hawke, clenching, nails digging into the headboard. He looked up, watching Hawke's face as he thrust again, close to his own orgasm, and laughed.

"What-"

Anders reached over his shoulder, hand finding the back of Hawke's head, turning to awkwardly kiss him as Hawke came, slipping out, seed joining the oil in a warm, sticky mess on the back of Anders' thighs. Anders turned, wrapping his arms around Hawke, kissing him deeply, pushing him back to the mattress. Hawke didn't protest, compliant and submissive for the first time since understanding what Anders wanted. What he needed. They stayed there, kissing for what felt like forever. And Anders didn't want it to end. But the sun would come up eventually, and the rush of responsibility returned. He pulled back.

"Mm. What?" Hawke asked, hands splayed against his back, holding him.

"That," Anders breathed. "It… I…"

"Shh," Hawke whispered, gently brushing the backs of his fingertips against Anders' cheek. He smiled. "You get what you paid for, yeah?"

"…Yeah."

And very suddenly he was reminded why it had been years since he'd been with anyone. The intimacy, the closeness, it was wonderful. He enjoyed sex, even random encounters with strangers in alleys. He wasn't above anonymous one-night stands, and Maker knew that's what a Circle mage could ever get. You shouldn't ever hope for more. And briefly, with Hawke, he'd forgotten.

It hurt.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," Anders muttered, rolling off him.

Hawke leaned up on his elbows. "It doesn't have to end yet."

"Yes," Anders said, wincing as he limped a little, rounding the bed to collect his clothing. "I think it does."

"You could stay for a bath. I usually help clean up, and I have poultices for your pain."

Anders scowled. "Why not just use magic?"

Hawke's playful concern faded at once, his face turning stony as he sat up. "I think you're right. I think you should leave."

It was unnerving how cold his voice could get.

"Fine."

"Maker's breath," Hawke sighed, standing. He twitched the curtain over the bed shut and walked to the wardrobe, pulling out a tattered dressing gown. "Should have fucking known. 'The Circle.' Brilliant." He tugged the dressing gown on and turned around. "Well? Are you leaving? And don't you dare think about turning me in. I don't care if you're a templar or a supporter-"

"Templar?!" Anders sputtered. He tugged his trousers on angrily. "You think I'm a bloody _templar_?"

"Former, current, friend of, doesn't fucking matter. You're not wanted. You try to come after me and I'll kill you."

"I am not-"

"I. Don't. Care. Get the fuck out. Now," Hawke said, grabbing his boots from the end of the bed and chucking them at him.

Anders grabbed for them awkwardly, bending to retrieve them, his shirt, and coat. "Look, I-"

"GET OUT!"

Anders went. The door slammed behind him, and he stopped only briefly at the top of the stairs to untie the ropes that had been left on his wrists in the confusion. He dressed hurriedly, running a hand through his hair as he fled the brothel, ignoring the look the bartender gave him as he departed. Realizing what a phenomenally bad idea the night had been, hot meal or no, he resolved never to do that again.


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke quit the brothel. He hadn't even wanted to seek employment there in the first place. Losing his siblings in the Blight made him desperate, needing to keep his mother safe and alive. Kirkwall, she suggested. It was stupid. He was mage, Kirkwall was crawling with Templars and supporters. He should've gone elsewhere. Anywhere. Antiva, Rivain. Somewhere out of Ferelden. But his mother wouldn't hear of it. And what happened? The brilliant plan went awry as most brilliant plans did. She fell ill on the boat. Died two days after they arrived from whatever sickness the refugees were carrying. He couldn't heal her. Couldn't save her. Just like he couldn't save Bethany or Carver.

Getting into the city was impossible without help. Gamlen – if he ever existed – never answered his mother's letter. He would have hired himself out as a mercenary, but without being able to get into the city, he couldn't offer his services to anyone. He was stuck on a rock, sleeping on a hard cot, waiting for a boat to bring him… anywhere. Back to Ferelden. Maybe they never should have left. Maybe they should have just gone north to West Hill or Highever. But then, there really was no way of knowing the Hero of Ferelden would end the Blight so quickly. Fleeing seemed logical at the time.

And then there was that noble. Friedrich? Dietrich? Hawke couldn't even remember, it was so long ago. He promised Hawke a way into the city, but it came with a price. A price that Hawke found, frankly, repulsive at the time. A night in the nobleman's bed. Apparently there was something quaint about fucking a Fereldan dog-lord. Two weeks later, scrounging for food in the wretched Gallows, living with dozens of others like himself as a boat came every few days to ship them out, he broke down. Returning to Ferelden was not an option. Going elsewhere was not an option. He had no money, no coin, and sold everything except the clothes on his back. He asked the guard for the nobleman.

The very next day he found himself in a mansion in Kirkwall's Hightown, being scrubbed down by 'servants' Hawke was fairly sure weren't getting paid. At first, it was just a night. Let the man touch him, suck him off. It was the first time Hawke touched a prick that wasn't his own. Thankfully that seemed to be all he wanted. But that was only payment to get into Kirkwall. Food and shelter and clothing? He would have to beg for those. So a deal was struck.

Until the man found out he was a mage. Three weeks he spent with him, living as a slave, letting the man use him. Use his hand, his mouth. Hawke drew the line there, and hated kissing him. It felt more intimate than anything else. And then, accidentally, he let his magic slip, healing the man's split lip after an accidental enthusiastic round in bed. He'd been thrown out at once. Naked and shivering, the City Guard found him, locked him up for the night, thinking he was drunk. In the morning he was allowed to leave, given a pair of ill-fitting trousers and a tent-like shirt. 

He found Lirene's, but hated accepting her charity. He traded his clothing for a better fitting, albeit poorer quality outfit, and some shoes. Begging was simply not an option, but work was scarce. No one knew his name and he had no references. Fereldans were already competing for work with the Lowntown Kirkwallers, and tensions were high. Two days of no food and little sleep, and he found himself in an alley, on his knees, getting paid to suck off some elven merchant he'd managed to corner.

Something in him changed. He needed to survive, and with little option, he turned to the brothel. He worked off everything he ate. His wages paid for his room. Slowly he started turning more tricks, making more coin. It was easy to use spells on the drunks, and they always seemed to enjoy it. A bit of healing magic to ease any pain, to tingle and soothe, and make them come faster to get them out of his room as quickly as possible. He started profiting. Not that, 'Highest Paid Whore' was a title he ever aspired to, but it afforded him a comfortable life, and he saved every extra copper he earned. He would leave Kirkwall one day. Perhaps return to Ferelden or go elsewhere. Somewhere he could hide from templars and not have to worry about being locked up.

Rumors in the city of the Knight-Commander taking over after the Qunari attack, the deaths of so many nobles and the viscount, and Hawke just about had enough of Kirkwall and its charms. Then…

Then Anders.

Hawke never cared who walked through the doors. He merely tried to snag the nicer-smelling ones before the others could. Anders was tattered, tired, worn. Definitely not a noble looking for a cheap thrill of slumming it down in Lowtown. He sounded Fereldan, so maybe he was a refugee. Hawke didn't care. He wasn't his usual type of client, but there was something about him. A spark. Maybe his smile, or the way he tilted his head slightly, like a kitten trying to figure something out. He looked as tired and lost as Hawke felt sometimes.

And Maker's breath, Hawke had fallen for it. Never kiss a trick on the mouth. It was an unwritten rule somewhere in the whore's handbook he'd never gotten a copy of. He never felt comfortable doing it. But with Anders, it was almost natural as soon as the door shut. And what came after was nothing short of the best sex he'd ever had. He didn't have to fake it with Anders like he did with every other client. Sure, there were some that were fun, some that tipped well. But Anders just felt natural. He didn't question why.

And it all fell apart so quickly. Anders didn't strike him as a Templar. Templar friend, maybe? Brother or a cousin of someone working the Gallows. The last thing he needed was a raid on the brothel. The owner didn't know he was a mage, and while the man wasn't the best employer, he was fair, and enjoyed the coin that Hawke brought in. Instead of waiting around to be caught, Hawke left that night, packing what belonged to him in a cloth sack, taking the money he saved, waited until the others went to bed, and slipped out like a thief in the night.

He disappeared into Darktown for a few weeks, ascending to the seedier parts of Lowtown only so he could eat. He couldn't stay here forever, knowing full well the coin would run out. But where to go? Starkhaven was just as dangerous, as was Ostwick. Anywhere west was closer to Orlais. Briefly he entertained the notion of Tevinter, where mages could walk around free. But it would likely be expensive to live in such a place. And the notion of slaves turned his stomach. East it would have to be, to Antiva where he could earn an honest living, maybe fishing or something similar.

But could he really walk away from Kirkwall? It wasn't his home, not really. But you couldn't stay in a place for long without developing some sort of fondness for it. If he could just _do_ something to improve the city, the way people lived. After the viscount's death, things just got worse. And not only for the mages in the Gallows, but in Lowtown and Darktown as well. Templar raids were more and more common, people who weren't even mages being dragged out of their homes in the middle of the night. Wasn't he a coward for sitting there, doing nothing? Could he just walk away from all of it, knowing he was leaving behind people he could potentially help?

He thought about the people he lost. His mother. She would want what was best for the city she grew up in. Carver would call him a coward for running. Bethany would have done anything she could, even though she feared the Templars herself. And his father… Malcolm Hawke was the bravest man he knew. He would be disappointed that his son was just getting by, not even trying to push himself.

_"Magic will serve what is best in me, not what is most base."_

He had a gift. The Maker gave it to him to do something more. And it was clear Kirkwall needed some kind of help. With a sigh, he picked himself up off the dirty blankets and left his little hovel he'd claimed in Darktown. He turned down an alley, frowning as he realized he was slightly lost. Years in the city and just over a month down here and he still got turned around.

"Should label these stupid streets," he muttered.

From somewhere high above, an explosion rocked the city. Hawke felt a sinking in his gut. Qunari. No. They left the city after getting what they came for and no one had heard from them since. Several people ran by in a panic.

"What happened?" he shouted.

One of them turned, stopping briefly enough to say, "Some mad mage blew up the Chantry!"

"What the- Who?"

"The Healer! The Darktown healer!" the man called, and ran off.

Hawke heard of him, the Healer. He'd never needed him, never bothered to seek him out. Thought maybe it was best he stay out of it, that corralling too many apostates in one place was a surefire recipe for disaster. After all, with himself, Bethany, and their father, they had to move often to avoid getting caught. Being a lone apostate was easier in the long run. But blowing up the Chantry?

He felt a spark of respect for the man. Too long had Knight-Commander Meredith been leading raids, hurting innocent people. With no real power, Hawke couldn't even fathom what to do. But one single man took it into his own hands. And Hawke realized that's where he needed to be. That's who he needed to be with. Even if it meant fighting and dying, it was a cause he was willing to give his life for. What was the point in trying to make a life for himself if he had to run and hide every time someone found out he was a mage?

Decision made, he found a path to the Healer's clinic, hoping to find the man before he fled, and flung open the door.

"Healer, I want to help you! I'm a mage, I'll-"

The man turned around.

"Anders."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to post a little something while I work on the backlog of stuff I have. Just a short AU with Hawke-the-whore, a nice change for me.
> 
> I'll update the list in my profile if anyone's interested to see what I've got brewing. Some DA2 stuff, some DAI/DA2 crossover. Much as I love DAI, Hawke/Anders remains my OTP. ;)


End file.
